


Maintenance

by Zooheaded



Category: True Detective
Genre: Gen, Haircuts, Rust can be people too, Synesthesia, goodwill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zooheaded/pseuds/Zooheaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Series: Rust rejoining the body and cultivating his new person-suit. Also Haircuts.</p><p>(Done for Truedetectiveprompts tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maintenance

 

The realization that he would need to do something about the untidy mop of hair atop his head came upon Rust when he was standing in the checkout line inside the hollow, fluorescent lit warehouse of a dust and old-lady-perfume scented Goodwill.

He idled by the checkout like he was waiting to be admitted to Purgatory, hyper aware of the stink of cheap detergent and attic cooked fabric sticking powdered ochre to the inside lining of his throat. The woman in front of him was arguing over the two dollar price of a fuzzy cat bank. The cat's wide, drippy blue eyes gazed skyward rapturously, like it could see Heaven slanting in through the network of  aluminum framework and white hot light fixtures. The sprawl of chrome racks, a quarter mile long, hung heavy with an Aurora Borealis of harsh colors. The people picked through them with dead shark eyes glassing over with the need to own more shit they didn't need. Rust wondered how many of the clothes in here had come from the bodies of the dead. Their now useless garments packed into black trashbags and shuttled out to be left in the donation bin. The last meaty scraps of a snuffed out life to feed the circling vultures of society. He shuttered his eyes closed and thought of his brand new apartment waiting for him at the end of all this.

 _“You can paint the walls._ ” She'd said, his new landlady, a hobbling seventy-something year old woman that had that same Goodwill clothing musk hanging about her. He'd only ever glimpsed her in the early mornings when she passed his driveway to light up a cigarette by the mailbox. One of the main reasons why he picked the place. Smoker friendly. _“I reckon there's a can of powder blue and tan somewhere in the broom closet.”_

 _“Thank you ma'am.”_ Rust'd said. He thought of the unused paint cans rotting in the closet. A sticky film growing over the surface like algae when the air creeped in through the half pried lid. Eventually the whole thing would be hard as a concrete block and just as heavy. He left it as it was. White. The crisp, empty _white_ walls of his apartment beckoned in his mind, cool and soft. Colorless. Tasteless. Odorless. No distractions. No intrusions. No memories.

_Sanctuary._

A couple of shirts, pants, and two suit jackets lay slung over the rail of one corded, inkstained arm, his free hand fiddling with the odd colored price tags like they could've been two pennies to rub together. His choices were based on a few key factors: the clothes fit, they were cheap, and they were dyed a color that didn't coat his tastebuds in old cabbage or smoked gasoline.

Dark blue was the wet wool taste of a woven scarf in his mouth, damp from ghosting breath and frozen over on the outside. It reminded him of protection. Brown and tan could be so many different things, but they stood out as warm more often than not and that was alright enough. Warm was good. He'd had enough cold to last him a fuckin' lifetime. A couple of black ties completed the ensemble, balled up in one fist like a slain pair of water moccasins, hawk killed, and in the process of being airlifted back to the nest.

He could pick out some clothes, replenish his depleted supply of professionalism and become 'one of the body' one loose garment at a time, but Rust knew he could not cut his own hair without making himself look like anything other than a circling buzzard clipped by a jet engine. He hadn't cared about first impressions in a long time, but he wanted this to work. _Needed_ it to work with a distinct intensity that burned like a low set, blue gas flame in the soft space between his ribs. He didn't believe in second chances, but he did place stock in required existential resets.

Burning out under the fluorescent light that made his skin take on a sickly green hue, Rust carefully weighed his options: A barbershop was right out. The thought of any man making to touch the edge of a razor to his skin made him break out in a hot sweat, kicking his heartbeat up into high gear like the hind feet of a spooked jack-rabbit. Instead of checking his pulse, he clenched his fingers tighter around the ties, the material cool and smooth against his skin. He tried to imagine the heavy, electric vibrations of the hair clippers clicking on by his ears, wondering if it would bring out something like a fear response.

Rust decided that a lady's salon was the better choice, and while he didn't relish the thought of manicured nails and hairspray thick air that tasted like a venomous gas leak, he didn't think that some college age, toilet brush haired girl gossiping about whatever the fuck they'd slapped on the cover of the latest _'Cosmo'_ would be very likely to give him PTSD flashbacks of knives cutting into his throat.

At this juncture in his life, he'd take what he could get. It was all just about maintenance at this point anyway.

Not a half an hour later, he found himself walking into a shopfront that had _'Curly Girl'_ nailed up on the brick like a fluorescent Christ and no less than six lurid pop-art illustrations of women done up in harsh 1985 blacks, pinks, purples and blondes, bursting watermelon in his mouth. But it was _“Hi honey.”_ and _“What can I do for you honey?”_ from a five foot burnette in her late forties before he could spin on his heel and walk right the fuck out again. Rust didn't know what he wanted, didn't know what to ask for or why any of this should even matter at all in the great churning machine of things, but he was forcing out a _“Just a trim please. Whatever you think would be best. I ain't picky.”_ And was being swaddled in a shroud of silken black and led to sit in a chair in front of a sink before he could fully comprehend what he'd agreed to.

The woman was prattling on about how rarely they got male customers and how smart it was of him to pop by the _'Curly Girl'_ instead because the barbershop across the way smelled like a place cigarettes, burnt hair and old, bored men went to die and talk shit about their wives. Rust wasn't really listening, all of his mental effort going into funneling his breathing out gentle through his nostrils so that he wasn't snorting and panting like a roped up horse. His head was tipped back easy over the sink, a towel slung around the back, supporting his neck. His throat was exposed like a long, bobbing wire waiting for a blade to cleave it in half.

But after many moments of counting his stuttered heartbeat, he realized the blade probably wasn't gonna come and forced himself to relax. He didn't look at the dust particles grabbing balls of light and tossing them back and forth to each other like a levitating soccer game. Just closed his eyes.

Bath-warm water soaked over his head and when he felt fingernails scratching lightly over his scalp his tongue went numb in his mouth and he swore he felt his heart slug down to a dying man's crawl. It felt so good his arms broke out in fields of blossoming gooseflesh, his spine went hot and loose and felt like it was melting to tar inside the soft casing of his body. It felt so good his eyes began to water and thin tracks of tears wavered in the corners, then broke at the edges, racing across his skin toward his ears. The shampoo tasted like bitter honey apple and he kept his eyes clamped tightly shut, lest it should all end too soon.

“You alright honey?” The woman drawled, jaw working hard against a wad of wintergreen gum.

“Eyes-” he swallowed thick, “Eyes feelin' a bit dry today I guess.”

 

~=+=+=+=+=~

 

“Well now, you sure do clean up pretty.” The lady said, and he never really learned her name, didn't think to ask as he squinted at his reflection, touched the loose curls that folded over on top of his head, fingers testing the clean sides, cut straight from a Leyendecker painting.

“I reckon so.”

Rust tipped her a twenty, feeling like he'd paid for something a bit more illegal than a haircut. He walked out to his truck, heavy and weak like he'd swilled two bottles of cough syrup. Drove home in a daze, and when he'd finally gotten inside and double locked the door behind him, he collapsed upon the soft white sheets and conked out for a good six hours straight.

He went back to the _'Curly Girl'_ once every two months, and told himself it was only for regular maintenance. Oil for a rusted out machine.

 


End file.
